


Understanding the Impact of Smoke Damage

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, POV Alternating, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: It was once believed that children born on Christmas Day were able to see spirits.





	Understanding the Impact of Smoke Damage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfspirals (gracefulally)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefulally/gifts).



> I enjoyed your requests, dear wolfspirals, and I really hope you enjoy this story, which was strongly influenced by one of my favourite X-Files episodes ever, How the Ghosts Stole Christmas.
> 
> Happy Holidays!

//

 

_One need not be a chamber to be haunted._  
~ Emily Dickinson

_Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what._  
~ Salman Rushdie

 

//

 

Snow comes early this year. Snow comes early and dark comes fast and Stiles wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed and pull the slightly sour sheets and blankets over his head and sleep until. Well. _Until_.

Snow comes early and Stiles’ Jeep slides in the slick and the slush but his hands are steady and sure on the wheel, and his heart barely stutters whenever he heads for the ditch. It’s a strange season, this one, the year when everything has changed, with Allison gone and everyone still in mourning and the hearts dark and the pack scattered. It feels fractured and loose and lonely, and Stiles knows he’s pulling back, pulling away, hibernating, he supposes. He thinks he would enjoy hibernation, curling up in his bed for months and months. And then some more.

Snow comes early and Stiles doesn’t see much of anyone, and he’s ok with that. He manages to make it to school and back, but that’s about it. He sees Scott and Kira in passing, Lydia from a distance and his dad at meals. Once he even sees Allison, lurking in the hallway at school, dark-haired and dark-eyed, tall and quiet, smiling at him, head tilted to the right, just slightly. She doesn’t look angry or bitter and she’s just watching him, in that quiet way she had. He stops and he blinks and his heart skips and he blinks again and she’s gone. Of course she’s gone, because she’s _dead_. He thinks about that, sometimes, in the middle of the night, the fine line, the thin fabric that separates the living from the ghosts.

Sometimes this is what keeps him awake at night, hours and hours of thoughts in the dark. And when he knows sleep is just not coming, he slips out of the house and into his Jeep and heads out, destination unknown, just away, away, _away._

Stiles sees Derek at the 24-hour grocery store one night on a 3am ice cream run and surprises himself by smiling at him. It’s tentative and full of nerves and Derek looks at him wide-eyed and equally surprised but he smiles back, small, almost reluctant. He looks tired, Stiles realizes. Tired and thinner, worn out, like they all are, but on Derek it looks awkward, an ill-fitting suit.

And it’s more than just a weariness, a need to catch up on sleep, Stiles thinks as he walks away, leaving Derek to poke listlessly at deli meats. There’s a hollowness to him, a paleness to the point of translucence. There’s a vibration under his skin of nerves or fatigue, and the dark circles under his eyes make him look more than just tired.

He looks _haunted_.

 

//

 

Insomnia has chased Derek all his life, even before tragedy caught him. Lately however, after the Nogitsune and after Allison he averages about three to four hours a night, he figures, if he’s lucky. He dreams when he does sleep but they don’t feel like dreams. He sees his family and jerks awake, tears on his face. He sees living people when he’s awake but they don’t feel real. He runs and runs late at night, exhilarating in the growing dark and cold, runs until his body physically gives out but even then his mind won’t settle. He tosses and turns and thinks and remembers. He’s at the point of asking Deaton for help but no. Then he remembers Stiles has had trouble sleeping in the past, and he could ask Stiles for suggestions, he supposes, on how to sleep, but he hardly ever sees Stiles these days.

Until he does.

 

//

 

The snow melts and it starts raining. It rains for days and the whole world is wet and grey. Stiles sees Derek at the shopping mall of all places on a dull, empty, nothing Saturday afternoon and Stiles gives him a small, tentative wave, a slight trembling of fingers and Derek doesn’t look so surprised this time. He nods, once, and smiles. Stiles almost walks into a pole. He hears a quiet snort and turns just in time to see Derek’s wan, drawn face pulled into a sudden, almost genuine smile. Stiles does a small, dramatic bow, gives a little salute, and keeps walking.

After, Stiles thinks about Derek’s sad, still face and smaller frame pulled in on itself and thinks why the hell not and starts texting him randomly throughout the day, just dumb thoughts and observations and sometimes even ridiculous photos of Stiles’ feet or his morning bedhead or a cute dog on the street and Derek replies every time, either with a one-word response or a question mark or even, sometimes, an _emoji_ , which catches Stiles off guard and makes him laugh and makes his face flush and makes him feel things he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He sees Derek and he sees the dead. He sees Allison at the corner and Ethan at the stoplight and Erica and Boyd outside the school. He sees them all, glimpses, flashes of light, peripherally, here and there, now and then, and then he shakes his head to clear it because they’re not there. They’re not really _there_.

But in the night, the real dead of night when the world around him is asleep and he lies still and steady, Stiles wonders, who sees them?

Who really sees the ghosts?

 

//

 

Derek has been aware of his feelings for Stiles for a while, since he went missing and before then probably, little insects under his skin, buzzing and itching at him, making him _wonder_ what it might be like to have more. More than just passing glances and waves of acknowledgement in public spaces.

When Stiles is buying chocolate mint ice cream in the middle of the night or nearly braining himself in the mall because he’s looking at Derek, he allows himself to _wonder_ if it’s possible for broken people to find some happiness, some wholeness.

And when Stiles reaches out, starts texting him, Derek can’t tamp down the swell of dangerous affection.

He _knows_ it’s dangerous. He knows it’s madness.

And he replies, every time.

 

//

 

Stiles thinks about things he hasn’t allowed himself to think about before, things like the feel of smooth skin/rough beard under his fingers and the taste of them under his tongue. He thinks about a certain colour of eyes and a certain slant of mouth. He thinks about these things when he takes Derek’s hand one night and Derek doesn’t immediately pull away.

“I don’t know,” is all Derek says. They’re sitting in the Jeep, not looking at each other. Sometimes they do this, now, drive around at night. It helps both of them, when they’re not sleeping.

“Don’t know what?” Stiles says.

“How to do any of this.”

Stiles knows what he means. He usually knows what Derek means, even when he’s speaking code, speaking in his short, declarative sentences.

“I don’t know if I deserve it.” Derek swallows. “To have that kind of life.”

And Stiles understands that, too. The darkness seems to follow them everywhere they go but maybe.

Stiles looks at him then. “Maybe we can try.”

Derek doesn’t answer.

 

//

 

But Derek lets himself try, for a little while. Allows himself a brief physical release because yes, ok, it’s more fun with two people. Especially, it turns out, when the second person is Stiles.

There are almost silent hook-ups in Stiles’ bedroom and the floor of Derek’s kitchen, fast and frantic, slick and almost silent. They learn to fit into the crooks and angles of each other’s bodies very quickly. They fit like a puzzle, and it works, it works every time.

They kiss under the glare of fluorescent lights in the grocery store, tongues quick and wet and slick until it’s too much and people are looking and they pull away and fairly race to the exit.

They touch in the backseat of Stiles’ Jeep in the driveway of his childhood home, hands groping and sliding and pinching, nipples and ribs and collarbones and hips.

They fuck in Stiles’ childhood bed, fast and frantic and furious with hips and knees and elbows and collarbones and cries muffled against shoulders, quick and hard and when they’re done they gather scattered clothes, faces averted, sweat cooling on heated skin and they go home.

They don’t talk, they don’t discuss or debate or fight or argue. They have sex. They get each other off. They clean up.

They go home.

 

//

 

When Stiles dreams he sees the roots. Tree roots burrowing deep into black soil into earth far below the earth he stands on. He sees roots coiling around the people he loves, around their necks, slowly, steadily strangling them, squeezing the air right out of their lungs their bodies.

When he awakes gasping, hands clutching at his chest, at the steady in and out of his breath. When he startles himself awake, wrenching himself free of the black tar of the dreams, he lets himself think of Derek. Derek’s steady patient gaze, his fatigue, his weariness, his sadness. He lets himself remember Derek completely losing himself to Stiles’ hands and mouth.

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it scares him even more.

 

//

 

When Derek dreams he smells the smoke. They say that smoke damage never really goes away and he knows this because he’s read it and because he’s lived it. He sees blackened and brittle wood. He sees splintered beams and floorboards. He doesn’t quite hear the screams of the dead but he can imagine what they might sound like, if he lets himself. He doesn’t let himself.

When he awakes he thinks of Stiles. He feels this thing with Stiles building. He dreams of Stiles, too, but he doesn’t smell like smoke. He smells like hope.

And that might scare him even more.

 

//

 

“So, you’re coming tonight, right?” It’s Christmas Eve and Stiles is bouncing on his feet and looks both hopeful and shy, something Derek is finding harder and harder to resist. They’re standing close together on the front porch of Stiles’ house. It’s raining. Still.

Derek nods. “Yes.”

“Dinner’s at 6, but you can, like come any time. Like. Any time this afternoon. If you, you know, want.”

Derek smiles. He feels his cheeks flush. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“Promise?” Stiles keeps bouncing. He looks like he wants to kiss Derek but is holding himself back with great restraint.

“Promise. Yes.” He pauses. “I just have a few things I have to do first.”

“Things like…buy me a present things?” Stiles grins, shy and hopeful again. 

“How do you know I didn’t already buy you one?”

Stiles’ mouth falls open a bit. “You bought me a present?”

“Whether I did or didn’t, it doesn’t matter. I finished all my shopping weeks ago and there’s no way I’m braving any mall today. I’m not _insane_.”

Stiles nods. “Wise decision.” He finally gathers his courage and reaches out to touch Derek’s wrist. He wraps long fingers around and holds him. “So. What. You’re taking a two-hour shower followed by a three-hour nap? Because I can totally get behind that idea.” He blushes. “I don’t mean, like with me or anything. Just as a concept.”

Derek actually laughs. “No. I just have.” He pauses, chews on the inside of his cheek. Stiles thinks he’s almost going to tell him when he shakes his head and looks away. “Just some stuff I need to do. Like holiday things. Traditional things. But I’ll be there.”

“Promise?” Stiles says again. His fingers tighten around Derek’s wrist.

“Promise.”

 

//

 

Derek doesn’t show up.

“You told him 6, right?” John asks. It’s half past and dinner is done and warming and John is on his second beer and Stiles is hovering by the front window, watching. Headlights loom and pass in the dark outside and each time Stiles’ heart kicks up then plummets.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, gnawing on a ragged thumbnail. “He promised.”

Stiles sends yet another text and then makes another phone call, only to have it go to voicemail, again. He speaks quietly so his dad won’t hear.

_Hey. Hey Derek. Me again. Just uh checking in to make sure you like. Didn’t forget. Or uh. Changed your mind. If you’re not coming maybe just let me know cuz we’re waiting. No pressure or anything but it would just be nice to know. I mean. I hope everything’s ok. Maybe you fell asleep. Or maybe you’re trapped in a huge lineup at the mall. Or maybe. God maybe you had an accident in which case ignore all this. I hope you didn’t have an accident jesus. Ok. I’m hanging up now. Just. If you changed your mind because of like me. Of us. Of not wanting to hang out together or it’s too much or something just. Let me know ok? It’s fine. I mean it’s not fine but I’d understand. Really._

“Did he say anything the last time you saw him?” John asks from the kitchen. He’s pulled the small turkey out, and is poking at it dispiritedly.

“Just that he had uh things to do. Holiday things.”

“What does that mean?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.” He pauses. “Traditional things.”

John looks over at him. “Well, son, traditional usually means family, so, I can’t imagine what that might mean for Derek.”

But then Stiles knows. Like a sledgehammer to the chest he knows. He knows exactly what it means.

 

//

 

The Hale house looms large and dark and silent in the clearing, half burnt, crumbling, quiet. 

Derek parks his car and studies the outline from through the windshield, face still and passive, heart steady. He releases the steering wheel and lets his hands rest on thighs briefly before he gets out, slams the door and climbs the steps, like he’s done so many times before.

He made a promise to Stiles and he intends to keep his promise. He also told Stiles he had things to do, holiday things, traditional things, and this is one of them.

Visiting his ghosts.

 

//

 

Stiles sees Derek’s car parked in front of the Hale house at the same moment he sees the smoke billowing out of the blackened windows of the already burned out shell of a house. He can’t quite believe what he’s seeing but then, reality is a tricky thing these days.

The Jeep comes to a skidding stop and Stiles is out and running and leaping up the splintered steps and into the house, arm over his face, expecting heat and flames and acrid smoke but there’s nothing. Nothing at all. It’s dark and quiet and still and smells of rot and ruin, mold and sadness. He slides to a stop in the front hall, looking around for any sign of fire. Nothing. He yells Derek’s name, running from room to room, finding him at last, lying on his side on the floor in the dark. Stiles’ heart climbs up his throat as he kneels beside him, hands resting on Derek’s head and arm, then his chest. He’s completely silent and still, but there’s no blood and he’s breathing. He’s breathing.

“Derek, _Derek_.” Stiles squeezes his cold hands and touches his warm face, feels the steady thud of his heart under the soft fabric of his shirt. Stiles lets his hand linger there. Stiles presses down, lets the familiar and comforting heat and muscle seep into his hand and up his arm. He wants to cry with relief, wants to wrap his arms around Derek and press his face into Derek’s neck. Wants to pick him up and carry him out. Instead he shakes him, hard.

“Stiles,” Derek says at last, turning his head and opening his eyes, his voice thick like it’s filled with cotton. Stiles cups his face, lets his thumbs rub against his cheekbones. Stiles might be crying, his head falling to Derek’s shoulder, taking a huge shuddering breath.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” He keeps moving his hands up and down Derek’s body but there’s nothing, nothing broken nothing bloody. Just Derek, confused, quiet.

“I don’t. I don’t know. I just wanted to be here, for a bit tonight.” Derek closes his eyes again. “Tradition.”

“Ok. Ok. Look.” Stiles is patting his own pockets a bit frantically. “I thought I had my phone. I could have sworn I had my phone.” Derek just blinks at him like he can’t quite fathom what he’s seeing.

“You’re. You’re really here, right?”

“Yes.” Stiles laughs. “Just. I’m gonna go grab my phone. Call my dad. He’ll be worrying. Might call an ambulance while I’m at it.”

“I don’t need an ambulance, Stiles.”

“Don’t move, ok? Please.” Stiles swoops in for a quick press of lips to Derek’s forehead, and then he’s up and running again.

 

//

 

The front door is locked.

Stiles pulls and jiggles and swears and kicks and sweats and wonders if this is where he’s going to die when he hears a distinct cough behind him. A female cough.

When Stiles spins around he’s face to face with Laura Hale. Who is dead. Oh look. It’s Derek’s dead sister Laura, standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping the floor, looking pissed as hell. Pissed at _Stiles_.

“Hey. Hey. Hi. Hi there,” Stiles says, back pressed hard against the front door, which is still locked. He knows this because he keeps jiggling the doorknob with his sweaty, shaky hand.

Laura nods, face tight, entire body tight. She’s mad, Stiles thinks. Or irritated. She looks so much like Derek he can’t quite wrap his mind around it. Or the fact that she fucking _died_ about five years ago.

“Stiles,” she says.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “You’re a ghost.”

She makes a dismissive noise and moves closer. Stiles tries to push himself through the door.

“We need to talk about Derek,” she says, and Stiles actually laughs. It’s more of a bark but even a ghost could tell the difference he thinks.

“Ok,” he says. Jiggle jiggle.

“He’s a good person, Stiles. He’s miserable, I guess, but he has good reason to be, as you can see. He has a lot of good inside him and he has a lot of love to give and for some unknown reason he loves _you_.”

Stiles stops. He stops laughing and he stops jiggling. He shakes his head. “Uh. Ok. Look. I know I’m dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or whatever is happening here but I’m not that far gone to ever even imagine that Derek Hale loves me.”

Laura tilts her head and does that smirk, that thing with her mouth that Stiles has seen Derek do so many fucking times the exact same way it’s almost ridiculous. Stiles would start laughing again if he wasn’t so fucking freaked out at the moment.

“Stiles, look. We don’t know each other, clearly. I was ripped to pieces before we ever got a chance to meet properly, but I know my brother. I know him better than anyone, probably.” She stops and Stiles could swear her eyes fill with tears. “I know Derek ok? I love him. And I know what he wants and thinks and more than that, I know what he deserves. And he deserves a little bit of happiness in this stupid fucking fucked up nonsense of a life.”

And Stiles grins because if that doesn’t sound like someone related to Derek then nothing does.

“Both of you have been through hell.” She looks right at Stiles then and Stiles can’t look away. Jesus she looks so much like Derek. Stiles breathes deeply, willing himself to steady and calm himself. “I know this. And I know life and I know what comes after and I know that you both deserve to be happy, even for a little while.”

She studies him. “Do you love him?”

Stiles swallows. “Yes.”

“Yeah. I know you do.” She pauses. “So stop fucking around and just be happy.”

Stiles just stares at her. “We’re trying. I think.”

She snorts. “You’re both fucking idiots. But you deserve each other.” She smiles then, just like Derek, soft and sarcastic but filled with something like love, before she turns and walks away.

 

//

 

The house welcomed him, like it always did. He knew it was damaged and dark and mostly dead, but it still felt like home, every time he walked inside and the front door closed behind him. It was his home, still.

He would not cry, he had decided. Not tonight. Tonight he wanted to walk through the rooms and think and remember and say hello, Merry Christmas, and then leave and drive to Stiles’ house and eat and laugh a bit and then kiss Stiles and maybe fuck him in the backseat of Stiles’ Jeep. Then he’d go back to his barren apartment and finally allow himself to cry a little before going to sleep and then run run _run_ all of Christmas Day through the woods, miles and miles.

But then the smoke comes. It comes creeping insidiously from the very walls of the house, under doorways and up from the floorboards. Barely noticeable at first but he smells it. He always smells it, he thinks, and at first he thinks it’s a dream, but then it’s in his nose, in his throat, in his eyes, and he can’t see he can’t breathe he can’t think and he’s flailing and coughing and crying and the last thing he thinks before he passes out and hits the floor is _Stiles is gonna be so disappointed._

 

//

 

When Derek opens his eyes again, he’s not alone. He’s not alone and he immediately starts crying because his mother is sitting on the floor next to him, holding his hand.

“Hello my beautiful boy,” she says. She’s crying too, Derek sees.

“It’s so very wonderful to see you, my darling, but you shouldn’t be here,” Talia says, her voice low and gentle.

“What do you mean?” Derek looks at her. She’s difficult to see clearly, fading in and out of his vision. “I want to be here. This is where I belong.”

“You don’t belong here. This house is full of the dead, darling,” she says and her eyes are so kind. “There’s nothing here but death and damage and memories. That’s all we are. Memories. And we’re _dead_ , Derek.”

Derek keeps crying. It’s not hard like before, but it’s steady. He doesn’t bother wiping his face anymore. Talia holds his hand and smiles.

“I just miss all of you so much.” And he sees them now, behind his mother, he sees his cousins Rudy and Nada, Georgie and Eleanor and Sam. He sees his Aunt Carol and Uncle Andrew. And he sees his _father_ , over in the corner, watching him and Talia with a kind expression on his face.

“We miss you too, love. You have no idea how much.” Derek can feel her soft, cold fingers squeeze his own. “But you’re alive and you have people out there, in the real world, ready to love you so much, if you let them.”

Derek just closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t.”

Talia, as always, hears everything Derek says and doesn’t say. “You’re not unlovable, Derek. It’s just the opposite dear heart. You have so much love in you and you’re so _easy_ to love. You’ve just forgotten how.”

Derek swipes at his face, impatient, and nods.

“And you can love, too, Derek. I know you can. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen all the love you have to give. Don’t hide all that away because you’re scared.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Derek says, but it sounds weak, even to his own ears.

Talia smiles again, her cold hand cupping Derek’s damp cheek. “Of course you are, sweetheart. Of course you’re scared. Why wouldn’t you be? You’ve lost so much. So much more than anyone should ever lose. But you’re also stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You have your whole, wonderful life ahead of you.”

Derek looks around the room, remembers what it once was, what it will never be again. He sees the ghosts of his family, people long gone, never to return, thinks of the boy — the man — who came to find him tonight, who touches him and kisses him and maybe, just maybe wants to have something more.

Maybe.

“You love him,” Talia says. She’s starting to fade. She’s fading away and she says it again, more insistent. “You love him.”

Derek nods. “Yes.”

“Good,” his mother says and smiles so big. “Then love him, Derek. And let him love you. And, have a happy birthday, beautiful boy.”

And then she’s gone, and his cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and father are gone, too.

And Derek is alone.

 

//

 

Stiles finds him.

“You’re ok, right? You’re ok.” Stiles touches Derek’s head, neck, hands shaky, face white.

“I’m ok, Stiles. Yes. I’m fine.” Derek grabs Stiles’ hands to still them, stop their frenetic dance over Derek’s body. Stiles is _vibrating_ as his eyes rake Derek’s body. “Are _you_ ok?” Stiles seems off, rattled, even more than usual, and it makes Derek want to wrap his arms around him, hold him tight and still, slow the thready beat of his heart.

“I’m…uh.” Stiles laughs, a little hysterically. His eyes are wide and flitting back and forth, looking for something. “It’s been. Uh. It’s been a night, yeah?”

Derek laughs. He actually laughs. He can’t help it. It just comes bursting out of him and he’s looking at Stiles standing in front of him, all the love and concern so open in his beautiful face and they’re huddled in the burned out blackened shell of Derek’s childhood home filled with so many ghosts. He wraps his arms around Stiles and pulls him close, pushes his face, stiff with tears, into Stiles’ neck and just breathes. And Stiles hugs him back. It’s probably the most affectionate, least sexual thing they’ve done in weeks and weeks and Derek sags against him, feels the tears building again, blinks hard and furiously as Stiles runs his hands up and down Derek’s back, resting briefly at his hips before starting again.

“You’re here,” Derek says, on an exhale. He lets his hands grab Stiles around the hips. Thumbs pressing hard and making Stiles squirm. “You’re really here. She said you’d be here.”

Stiles laughs. “Who?”

Derek laughs again, and it’s better, it’s almost joyful, and he pushes his face hard into Stiles’ neck and smiles there. He can’t help it.

 

//

 

Stiles drives, one hand on the wheel, the other entwined so tightly with Derek’s it hurts. He knows the way by heart but it’s dark and Stiles is having a hard time catching his breath and Derek’s hand keeps twitching in his and every once in a while Stiles can hear Derek’s breath catch in his throat, and there’s a low whine, almost a growl but not quite.

They don’t speak.

It starts snowing.

 

//

 

The Sheriff is waiting for them, concerned but not worried, curious but not questioning. He takes in their joined hands as they climb the steps and come inside, their matching expressions, their fatigue and acceptance. He hugs Stiles and claps Derek on the back waves them to the table, where the food is waiting.

“The turkey is dry as hell, but there’s beer at least.”

 

//

 

After John goes to bed, they sit side by side on the couch and Derek goes through all of Stiles’ text messages, listens to the voicemails as Stiles sits quietly by his side, head resting on his shoulder.

“Stiles,” Derek says at last, eyes wide and luminous in the dark.

Stiles looks at him.

“I wasn’t.” Derek stops. “I would never just not show up. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He swallows. “I want to try, at least. Right? We deserve that. A chance, right?”

Stiles can only nod. He can’t speak. He nods and squeezes Derek’s hand so hard it must hurt. It must. But Derek never flinches.

 

//

 

“So. Some really weird shit. Uh. Stuff. Happened tonight.” Stiles speaks into the darkness, hands shoved deep into his pockets. They’re standing on the porch and he doesn’t look at Derek, but he can feel Derek’s eyes on him.

Derek nods. “Yeah.”

Their breath is visible and it’s snowing. It’s snowing and Stiles can’t help but thinking it’s something wonderful, something magical even Maybe. They deserve a bit of magic, don’t they?

He thinks they do.

“So you worried when I didn’t show up,” Derek says, like he’s still trying to understand.

“You promised.”

“And you somehow realized I’d be at my old house.”

Stiles nods.

“And the house was on fire.”

Stiles nods again. Then he stops. “Well. It was and it wasn’t,” he says. “I mean. It looked like it was. From where I was standing.”

“From where you were standing.”

“Yeah. I mean, there was smoke and uh. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I imagined the whole thing now.”

“You didn’t.”

Stiles looks at him. “Ok.”

Derek steels himself for the next part. “And you ran inside to what? Save me?”

Stiles shrugs and swallows. “Yeah.” Then he shrugs again. 

“You ran into a burning house to save me.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. The nerves are rolling off him. It almost makes Derek feel ill. “I was…worried, ok, that I’d scared you off and I wanted to apologize and tell you…it’s ok. Whatever you want is ok.”

Derek stares at him like he he’s staring at another ghost.

“Stiles,” he breathes.

Stiles turns and looks at him, right at him, face open and raw and waiting.

Then Derek kisses him them, fully and thoroughly because he can’t believe that Stiles did that for him. He kisses and kisses him on the front porch of Stiles’ childhood home with snow on the ground and stars in the sky and Derek doesn’t stop until he’s pushed Stiles’ back against the faded and slightly peeling paint of the wooden porch wall. Stiles makes a small oomph sound but doesn’t let go.

And the snow keeps falling and Stiles keeps hanging on and Derek keeps hanging on right back.

They both hang on.

 

//


End file.
